The Ways of Witches
by brillig
Summary: Following the death of her son, Serafina runs away to grieve in the comfort of the moors. After a month of hunting, Coram finds her and begs her to return home. I've noticed a shortage of Coram/Serafina fic, so I figured I'd contribute.


The moors were just as he remembered: desolate and beautiful. The bracken water rippled under his boat, broken up by the occasional tangle of reeds. Aside from a tern who floated up into the sunset with a lonely wail, Coram and Sophonax saw no one as they paddled along. It was no coincidence, he realized, that there was only a one-letter difference between _lonely_ and _lovely._

When their boat scraped the muddy shallows, Coram climbed out and invited Sophonax to curl about his shoulders. The cat accepted his position solemnly, hooking his claws through Coram's rough brown jacket. They were both silent; there was no need to communicate verbally. Both could feel it, their hunt was nearly over.

It had been three months since his son had laid cold in his cradle, and then cold in the ground. Three months since that final, silent goodbye… That final embrace, that final tangling of their bodies, that final kiss.

_"Serafina." _

There she was, standing in the shallows like a marble statue, naked save for the water weeds that draped black against her pale skin. She turned slowly, regarding him with her dark eyes.

Out of all the words floating through the universe, the only three he could manage were "You look cold." That was typical; he was always trying to keep her warm. Always trying to protect her, though her skin never grew chilled in the icy wind of the North. He wanted to tell her he loved her, that he missed her; he wanted to call her his Wild-Goose like he used to when they first met. But those were the only words he could manage, a brief notice of the brisk air, words that more carefully summed up how he was feeling than how Serafina looked.

"I've been cold for three months," she responded slowly.

"Why did you leave?" He asked, a slight waver betraying the raw hurt in his voice.

She continued to stare at him silently, black hair falling over her face like a curtain. His face was more weathered, she realized, and his eyes were dimmed. Sophonax's fur, which used to have such vibrant luster, now looked like the sun on a hazy day. It was dulled and muted, a sad reflection of his former splendor.

They were both still so beautiful. They were both so temporary.

"I cannot bare it, Coram," she whispered. "I cannot bare these human lives, which burn as brightly as a candle flame, but are snuffed out just as easily."

"I have not burned to the quick yet."

She shook her head, freeing her white cheeks from the clinging strands of her hair. "When we first met here five years ago, I convinced myself we would last for eternity….Five years are but a breath for me, Coram. A blink of the eye. But I have aged more in these past five years than in the hundred before them."

"There can be five more. And five more after that."

"No." Her voice was pained, but confident. "I was naïve, Coram. These affairs never last."

"So you took me as a lover and then abandoned me?" He demanded, as Sophonax bristled around his neck. "Is that the way of witches?"

She winced, as if Sophonax was hunched over her own bare shoulders, nails digging into her flesh. "That is the way of witches," she whispered.

"Please come home, Sarafina," he muttered as a final, desperate plea.

She only shook her head. "I have been made clan queen," she responded. "My place is in the North."

"Then I will come with you."

"Men are not allowed in the witch-lands. You know that."

"Then I will leave." He was angry, and it burned her like a sudden burst of flame. He was turning already, wrenching his boots from the muck of the swamp and struggling back to where his boat was anchored in the reeds.

The good thing about human life spans, she considered, was that pain faded faster. Coram would feel better one day. Perhaps he would even forgive her. He could still salvage his life. A human wife, a natural and healthy child… Those were the things Coram deserved. _Her dear Coram…_

With hundreds of years stretching before her like a carpet slowly unfurling, she wasn't sure how many centuries it would take to get over this Gyptian man with his gentle eyes and his sunburst daemon.

Somewhere over the moors, a lonely goose let out a strangled call.


End file.
